


One Step Closer

by thedevilchicken



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gang Rape, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26348578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: The attempted Coin Guard coup takes a different turn.
Relationships: Constantin d'Orsay/De Sardet, Constantin d'Orsay/Male Coin Guards
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Press Start VI





	One Step Closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



He's sitting in the main reception room, on the seat that's almost but not quite a throne, up the step that's almost but not quite a dais, when his cousin returns from San Matheus. 

Usually, he'd break protocol, because what good is a protocol if there can't be the odd exception to it? His cousin has always been an exception to so many things, after all, where Constantin is concerned. Usually, he'd stand up and he'd go to him, he'd meet him halfway across the room like he can't wait to clap both hands to his cousin's upper arms, as if that's a sensible way to greet a man and not simply an outward sign of how much de Sardet has been missed. All the others could go straight to hell for all Constantin cares, or wherever it is the zealots from Thélème think the bad ones go, as long as his cousin keeps coming back to New Sérène alive. 

Usually, he'd go to him; today, though, he sits on his not-throne and watches him, and waits. 

This is where they met twelve days ago, before de Sardet left on yet another of his trips across the island, when the Coin Guards mounted their attempt at a coup. His cousin is the only one left who knows what happened, and Constantin can't guess how he's going to react now. 

He'd been rather uncustomarily alone when they arrived that afternoon, Sir de Courcillon in his study and petitioners departed for the day. He was alone and they came bursting in through the doors with great bravado while he was gathering his things to go back up to his study. He couldn't say he did much studying there, of course, but he did have letters to write and books to read - he'd brought a few of his favourites with him, the bawdy ones his father would have disapproved of thoroughly, and he'd just been getting to the good part when he'd had to come downstairs for an audience. 

Three guards came in, in their blue-silver uniforms that said the Congregation paid their wages, and that should have meant that the d'Orsay name bought their loyalty. He wasn't concerned in the beginning, though they seemed to be walking across the room with rather more vim and verve than usual; he remembers looking up at them, recognising them and dismissing them without putting a name to any of their faces, and he supposes Sir de Courcillon would tell him that fact tells him something interesting about himself. It tells him something, yes, but he's not sure he'd call it interesting. After all, he knows he's not a good man - he's a selfish man and he won't deny it, except where his cousin is concerned. 

They didn't stop. They didn't slow. As they came closer, they got faster, until Constantin turned and yelped out loud as two men grabbed him by the arms while the other watched. He remembers calling out, but the third man, the watcher, laughed at him. He was wearing an officer's uniform, like Kurt's. He was a captain, like Kurt. But the look on his face said he didn't quite have Kurt's generally good intentions. 

"Shout all you like," he said. "There's no one to hear but us." And Constantin did shout, though he had no reason to disbelieve him - after all, gagging him wouldn't have been difficult. As it was, he didn't gag him; he just stepped in close and pressed his fingers up underneath his chin, tightly, until Constantin could barely breathe. Admittedly, that did stop him shouting.

The captain leaned closer, all beery breath and two-day beard. He told him, "If you bite, it'll be the last thing you ever do," and he tapped the long knife that was tucked into his belt.

Constantin thought he knew what would happen next, and it involved the unbuttoning of trousers, but the captain made a fist in Constantin's hair and forced his fingers into his mouth instead. That's what he remembers most, he thinks: that first part, with the officer's first two fingers pushing past his lips and rubbing there against his teeth and how he clenched his jaw to keep from letting them in further. That didn't last, though; the officer's fingers slipped out of his hair and pressed hard at his throat again, until he gave up. He opened his mouth and then he felt them pushing in, pressing down against his tongue. They tasted like his leather gloves over gun oil over slightly salty skin and Constantin felt sick from it. But the guards held his arms and the officer explored his mouth: cheek, palate, the back of his teeth, following his tongue until they were in so deep he almost gagged. Then the captain pulled his fingers back and rubbed the spit off his hand on Constantin's own second-best doublet. He'd worn it because his cousin had been due back from Hikmet and he'd always told him he looked handsome in it. He hadn't worn it for this.

He remembers the rest, of course, though somehow much more dimly. He remembers their hands as they stripped him, roughly, pushing and pulling, the back of one hand slapping his cheek and knocking him down onto the step in front of his chair. They tore his shirt - he heard it ripping, and felt the pull of it, then saw the fabric hanging down to both his sides. They pushed him up onto his knees and pulled his trousers down over his arse and the captain stuck his fingers into his mouth again, to use Constantin's own spit to slick his hole. He remembers the burn of the carpet rubbing his hands as they spread his knees and fucked him. And when his cousin burst in, mercifully without companions to see what he'd burst in on, the third one had just spent himself inside him. When his cousin burst in with an outraged shout and killed them all with one heady burst of magic, more precise and deadly than Constantin had known he could muster, the evidence of what they'd done must have been extremely clear to see. 

"Constantin..." de Sardet said, and the tone of his voice said he was thoroughly appalled. Constantin was grateful that he'd arrived, of course - he'd understood they meant to kill him once they'd had their fun and he didn't have a death wish - but he wasn't sure that he could stand to have his beloved cousin sound like that. 

He pulled up his trousers. He shed his shirt and put his doublet on to cover his bare chest. And when he turned, he forced a smile onto his face. 

"Impeccable timing as always, cousin," he told him, lightly. "You know, I believe they meant me harm!" He gestured to their bodies with one hand, the palm of which had been scuffed near-raw against the carpet, so he quickly tucked them both behind his back instead. "Would you deal with this? I'd like to change my clothes." 

De Sardet protested but Constantin made his way to the door, as quickly as he could manage with the aches and pains they'd left him with. De Sardet made to follow him, but he shooed him back.

Before the now-dead guards had arrived, Constantin had intended to go up to his study; with his torn shirt in one hand, he made his way up to his bedroom instead. He told himself it could have been far worse: his cousin could have arrived later, at the very least, or they might have caught him unawares and done the same to him. It was absurd to think he was grateful for the way that it had happened, so he told himself it didn't matter, too. After all, it was hardly the first time he'd found himself embroiled in a less than desirable situation. He'd spent too many nights gambling for that, and he'd been somewhat creative in the ways he'd paid his debts.

He went to his room. He took off his clothes. And the water in the jug on his dresser was cold, yes, and he could have had fresh water sent up, yes, but he didn't feel like waiting for it. He poured some out into the washbowl and, with his mouth taking a bitter twist, he dipped his torn shirt into it. He washed his come-splashed thighs with it, until rivulets of water ran down the backs of both his legs and dripped splotches onto the parquet floor. Then he leaned down over the dresser and ran his ruined shirt between his cheeks.

As he did so, he felt his cock twitch. As he did so, he felt his pulse begin to quicken. He wondered how much it might hurt, or he told himself that was why he did it - he put his shirt down on the dresser, by the bowl, and slid his fingers against his hole instead. It ached as his fingertips brushed against it, but it didn't hurt. It ached, and his cock began to stiffen, though he knew that was ridiculous. There was a jar of oil sitting on the dresser, not exactly intended for that purpose but he knew it would do in a pinch; he dipped his fingers into it then slipped them back again. When he pushed two of them in, past the aching rim into the hole three traitorous men had just finished having, he told himself it would all be fine. His cousin would forget.

"Constantin."

His stomach clenched. He hadn't even heard the doors opening, though he was certain that he'd closed them. He took a breath and pressed his forehead down against the dresser and he wondered if he felt more ashamed to be found like this than on the floor downstairs. Perhaps he should have turned, too, and covered himself with the remains of his shirt, but he wasn't sure he had much modesty left in him. His cousin was unlikely to forget _this_ , after all, not after all the years they'd spent ignoring what Constantin so obviously wanted.

"I thought I told you to leave me," Constantin said. "If you're scandalised, it's entirely your own fault."

He heard de Sardet take a breath, like a moment's hesitation. He heard de Sardet's boots against the floor. They weren't leaving, though; they were coming closer.

"I was concerned."

"You should leave."

"Is that what you want?"

Constantin frowned against the dresser top. Constantin flinched as his cousin's hand came to rest between his shoulderblades. It wasn't what he wanted, no - he wanted to wrap his arms around him, bury his face in the crook of his neck and tell him he was glad he'd killed those men. He wanted to take his cousin's hand and slip it down between his cheeks and replace his own slick fingers with his, instead. 

He sighed. Awkwardly, he shook his head. "No," he said, and he turned his head to look back at him, one-eyed, as his heart thudded in his chest. "No, that's not what I want."

De Sardet took his wrist and eased his fingers out of him. Constantin expected him to ease him up against his chest and wrap his arms around him, murmur things, comfort him. Instead, he saw him dip his fingers into the little jar of oil.

De Sardet had him, slowly, bent over the dresser, with one hand wrapped tight around Constantin's cock. De Sardet fucked him, Constantin's hole tight around him, fingers gripping hard at the dresser's edge until he came. Afterwards, de Sardet looked at him as if he wasn't sure what had possessed him, as if he thought he was as bad himself as the men he'd killed, as if everything he'd done was wrong - and then he'd swept out of the room before Constantin could say how much he'd wanted it. And in the morning, de Sardet left New Sérène to thwart another coup in the city of a Congregation ally, and Constantin couldn't bear to see him off - perhaps because he couldn't bear to see him go. He knew he'd return because he always did his duty, but he doubted that what was between them would ever be the same.

Now here they are again. In the same room where it happened. He's wearing his second-best doublet, just like he was that day, though whether it's because his cousin's always said that he looks handsome in it or because he wants him to remember, he's not sure.

"Leave us," de Sardet says. 

The new and apparently more trustworthy guards look skeptical, as do his cousin's companions, but Constantin doesn't say a word to contradict the order and so, after a moment's hesitation, the room begins to clear. And, once the doors are closed and they're alone, Constantin doesn't need to go to him; de Sardet comes to him instead. 

He expects him to say something - apologies, perhaps, or platitudes, or enquiries as to his health. He expects him to say something but he doesn't; he sheds his gloves onto the floor and holds out both of his bare hands and Constantin, found off guard, reaches out to take them. He lets him pull him up onto his feet. He cups his face just for a moment, and then he wraps his arms around him. Inside, Constantin feels a warmth he hadn't realised he'd lacked.

Perhaps things aren't fine. Perhaps they won't be for some time, or perhaps they'll never be. But, as his beloved cousin's mouth finds his, he does feel one step closer to it.


End file.
